Alpha Strike c-8

by Keith Douglass

  “I almost hope so, for the aircrew’s sake. They can’t take much more of this, Tombstone.”

  Tombstone shot his old wingman a hard look. “You think I don’t know what they’re going through? It hasn’t been that long, Batman, since you and I were pulling alert five.”

  “We never pulled this many in a row, shipmate — not on top of normal operations.”

  “I know that. But there was no other way. I know this air wing. They’re tired, but they can do it.”

  “I hope you’re right, my friend,” Batman said softly to himself. “Because if you’re not — the options become unacceptable real fast.”

  “As long as the Vietnamese do their part,” Tombstone said. “Feels really strange, depending on them.”

  “You’re the one who’s always telling me that war is more than blowing aircraft out of the sky.”

  “Let’s just hope the politicians understand that part of it. Because if they didn’t, that’s all this is going to amount to.”

  “That’s it!” the TAO shouted. “Admiral, you were right! Tomcat’s reporting numerous fighters inbound!”

  “TAO, get a raid count from that Tomcat,” Tombstone said quietly, ignoring the jolt of adrenaline flooding his body.

  “Gunslinger 101 estimates ninety aircraft, Admiral,” the TAO replied. “Feet wet off the coast of Vietnam five minutes ago. Air boss requests permission to set flight quarters.”

  “Do it,” Tombstone ordered. “And tell him I expect to see a new record set on launching the alert CAP.”

  Ten seconds later, the thunderous roar of a Tomcat at full military power shook the space. Tombstone glanced at the CCTV and saw the afterburners light the deck in an eerie hell-like fire. Five seconds later, the catapult sang its rattling song, ramming forward to toss the first alert fighter off the deck.

  The carrier shook with the differing rhythms, as a forward catapult, followed by the waist cat, then the other forward catapult launched the alert package. For ten minutes, the refrain was Tomcats. The lighter-voiced scream of the Hornets picked up the second verse, followed by the rumble of a KA-6 tanker.

  Within twenty minutes, the carrier felt eerily silent, the last of the alert aircraft launched. Overhead, he could hear the odd rattlings and vibrations that came from aircraft being moved around the deck in preparation for normal launch.

  Tombstone felt strangely disconnected from the battle. Unlike every other time in his career, this time he’d be following it on the communications net and from the radar screen instead of in the air. His hands curled, missing the feel of the vibrating throttle beneath them. Watching red symbols track across a screen was a poor substitute for the actual sight of the enemy raid.

  Over the tactical net, he could hear the Hornet pilots snapping at each other, chivvying to be the first in line to top off from the tanker and get into the fight. The longer-legged Tomcats were already underway to the fight. Had he been able to come up with an excuse — any decent excuse would have done — he’d have been up there with them. But, as CAG had reminded him, it was time to turn the fight over to better eyes, faster reflexes, and the next generation. His place was here on the ship. The harder job, perhaps, except for the dying — watching it instead of doing it.

  “Admiral! S-3 SUCAP reports a visual on a periscope!” the flag TAO said. “Where?” he demanded.

  “Thirty miles to the east, sir. DESRON is vectoring them in for the intercept.” The TAO paused, and a frown crossed his face. “Lost it. It went sinker as soon as the S-3 got overhead.”

  “I’ll save DESRON the trouble of asking the next question. Tell that Viking he’s weapons free, and to watch out for those Grails,” Tombstone said immediately. The TAO nodded, and passed the word up five decks to the DESRON.

  If he’d had any doubts about the Chinese intentions, the sudden appearance of the submarine had cured them. No matter whether it was a Kilo or a Han-class boat, it had just surfaced for the last time.

  CHAPTER 24

  Thursday, 4 July

  1815 hours (Zulu -7)

  Handler’s Office USS Jefferson

  Good hunting, Lieutenant,” Chief Franklin said.

  “Thanks, Chief,” Bird Dog said absently, his mind already forty feet away in the cockpit of the Tomcat. He scribbled his name in the maintenance log, acknowledging he’d read the “gripes,” the maintenance action forms, filed in the compact folder. He patted himself over one time, carefully checking that he had his water bottle, candy bar, gun, and all the other paraphernalia that pilots tucked into the pockets of their flight suit. He gave the crotch straps on the ejection harness one last tug to tighten them. As dangerous as ejection could be, loose straps could result in permanent damage.

  He pushed open the hatch and felt the heat and the noise of the flight deck assault him. He scanned the deck and found Tomcat 205 waiting near the handler’s shack. The plane captain, a slim, coverall-clad figure, was dogging down one last panel.

  Shaughnessy! Bird Dog stormed back into the handler’s office. Chief Franklin was still there, leaning on the counter and chatting with the handler.

  “Chief! What’s she doing on my aircraft?” Bird Dog demanded.

  Chief Franklin slowly straightened up, and his face lost all expression. “She’s preflighting, Lieutenant. Plane captains have their own routine for certifying the aircraft safe for flight.”

  “I know what a plane captain does, damn it! What’s she doing on my aircraft?”

  “Take it outside, gentlemen,” the handler said abruptly. “We’ve got work to do in here.”

  Bird Dog followed Chief Franklin out of the shack and around behind it. The massive bulk of the island masked part of the screaming jet noise and made conversation in normal tones of voice almost possible.

  “I don’t want her on my Tomcat,” Bird Dog said. “And I’m surprised you’d even consider it, Chief. What the hell were you thinking? Putting a plane captain that I’m sending to captain’s mast on my aircraft?”

  “What I’m thinking, Lieutenant, is that you are one arrogant, ignorant son of a bitch,” the chief said. “Who the hell are you? You really think that girl would do something to your aircraft just because you assigned her some extra duty? If that’s the way you think of these plane captains, you better find a new career. Because today, and every day that you fly, you’re going to be depending on those people for your life.”

  “You’ve got other plane captains!”

  “And let me tell you something else. Yes, I do have other plane captains. But Shaughnessy is the best damn one of the lot. You’re the most inexperienced pilot in this squadron, sir. I don’t know whether you or the plane captain missed that hydraulic leak a couple of days ago. What I do know is that it killed a sailor. Given that, what makes sense to me is to put my best sailor on the job to make sure you don’t fry your young ass or kill someone else in the process. And if you’ve got a problem with that, I suggest you take it up with the Maintenance Officer. Sir.” The chief turned abruptly and stalked away.

  Bird Dog stared after him for a moment, and then started after him. As he reentered the Handler’s office, he saw Chief Franklin’s broad back disappearing down the passageway. He started after him.

  “Lieutenant!” the Handler said sharply. “You’ve got a mission to fly. I suggest you get your ass out to that aircraft before your event gets canceled. And get your head in the game. You got problems with your chief, you leave them down in your Branch spaces. Don’t be airing your dirty laundry up here.”

  Jesus, was everybody in the whole air wing out to ream him today? Bird Dog stopped short of snapping out an angry response and nodded abruptly. There was some truth to what the Handler said. Always, the mission came first.

  He turned and headed for the hatch again, ready to start his preflights. He stopped abruptly as he caught sight of the slim figure framed by the entrance.

  Shaughnessy. How long had she been standing there? He glared at her. Everything that had gone wrong so far had
been her fault. If she’d just worn her cranial on the flight deck like she was supposed to …

  “Just coming in to sign your aircraft out as safe for flight, sir,” she said. Her voice sounded tight. “Could I have the MAF, please?”

  The Handler slid the multipart form across the desk to her. She ran her eyes down it and then scrawled her signature across the bottom. “Your aircraft, sir.” She started toward the hatch.

  “Shaughnessy-” Bird Dog started.

  “Sir. Excuse me, but I’ve got three other aircraft to preflight,” she said, finally looking up at him. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her face looked thinner than it had the last time he’d held quarters inspection. “Could it wait?”

  “Of course,” he said finally. “We’ll talk when I get back.”

  She nodded abruptly and led the way out to the aircraft. As Gator and Bird Dog performed their preflights, she followed them around the aircraft, occasionally double-checking a panel fixture or wiping a smudge off the fuselage.

  Finally, Bird Dog clambered up into the cockpit, and Gator followed. Once they were seated, Shaughnessy followed them up, stepping carefully on the pull-out steps on the fuselage. She checked to see that the ejection seat pins had been removed, and double-checked the ejection harness connections to the seat. Finally satisfied, she gave both of them a weary nod. “Good flight, sirs,” she said, fixing her eyes on Gator.

  Gator waited until the canopy slid into place and then said, “Sometimes you can be a real asshole, Bird Dog.”

  “Seems to be the unanimous opinion today,” the pilot snapped. “You want to go fly or you want to share more of your exciting insights with me?”

  Gator sighed. “Let’s just get airborne, Bird Dog. At least I know that you know how to do that.”

  Bird Dog taxied forward, following the Yellow Shirt’s hand signals and carefully sliding the Tomcat into position on the catapult. Halfway to the catapult, the fear hit him again. He was so tired — oh, Jesus, was he tired! Two days of flight-deck operations, launching alert aircraft every time the Chinese sortied, struggling to get back on board the pitching deck at night, fighting not to think about the monster that grew larger every day! It was past the point of mere preference and into the issue of safety. Even the surge of adrenaline that had hit him when he’d heard about the inbound raid had faded away to a dull, aching jangle of nerves. Had Airman Alvarez been this tired when he’d wandered behind the Tomcat that night? What had it been like — to be so tired he hadn’t seen the danger, so tired he hadn’t noticed the screaming F14 turning on the deck? Alvarez would have been thinking about his rack, six decks below, calling to him. Maybe he’d even felt a momentary gleam of hope — Bird Dog’s event was one of the last to launch, and Alvarez could have looked forward to perhaps almost an hour of unconsciousness before he’d have been called back onto the flight deck to start recovering aircraft. Not in his rack, no. Not with that many aircraft airborne, due back on deck too soon. Alvarez probably would have simply gone down one deck and stretched out full-length in one of the passageways that crisscrossed the interior of the carrier like a maze.

  When did he realize what had happened? When the jet’s sucking pull first hit him? The second his feet left the deck? Or had it taken a few milliseconds, long enough for him to come fully awake only as he was hurtling through the air, suspended in the air between the ship and the jet engine?

  How many times had he stepped over the exhausted plane captains lining the passageways? Cursed as he tripped over a sound-powered telephone cord stretched across the linoleum to an outlet, the earphones still clamped firmly to the plane captain’s head? Had he ever even stopped to think that the flight deck crews had no mandated crew rest requirements between flights, or that too few of his fellow officers ever gave a thought to the countless bone-tired enlisted people it took to get the elite aircrews off the deck?

  “Bird Dog! They gonna start charging us rent, man,” his RIO said into the ICS.

  Bird Dog was suddenly aware of the waving green lights in front of him. The Yellow Shirt was motioning frantically for him to move forward, to clear the way for the next aircraft.

  Was he safe to fly? Bird Dog hesitated, and then slowly eased the throttle forward. He held the image of Alvarez’s face before him for a moment, then forced it back into the compartment of his mind that held everything not associated with the immediate mission.

  Suddenly, a figure darted across the flight deck toward the catapult. Lights flashed red as the air boss called a foul deck. Bird Dog craned his neck to try to see what poor fool had just incurred the wrath of the tower.

  For the third time in the last hour, he choked on Shaughnessy’s name. What in the hell was she doing now! She’d already formally certified the Tomcat as safe for flight and turned over responsibility to the Yellow Shirt and the pilot.

  The young airman was pointing at the left side of his Tomcat and making jerking motions with her hands. The Yellow Shirt shook his head no. The airman put both hands on her hips and leaned forward, standing close and screaming in the senior petty officer’s ear to be heard over the noise. The Yellow Shirt shrugged, then nodded. Bird dog saw his lips move as he spoke with someone on the flight deck circuit. Finally, he looked back up at Bird Dog and shook his head from side to side.

  Enraged, Bird Dog began demanding answers. “Your aircraft is down,” the Handler replied. “You might have a control surface problem — we want to get it checked out. You need to move back off the cat.”

  “Damn it, this aircraft is fine!” Bird Dog yelled. “It feels fine! Don’t you think I’d know if I had a control surface problem? Look!” He cycled the stick again.

  “Off the cat, mister,” the Air Boss snapped. “You want to argue, you come up here and see me!”

  Bird Dog swore and backed the Tomcat off the catapult. He taxied back to the spot and shut down. He jammed the canopy back and vaulted out of the aircraft, ignoring the steps and welcoming the hard shock of hitting the deck.

  “What the hell are you doing!” he swore at the plane captain. “This your idea of revenge? You just bought your ass another trip to Captain’s Mast!”

  Airman Shaughnessy ignored him. From the handler’s shack, Chief Franklin came over at a trot and interposed himself between the pilot and the plane captain. Bird Dog tried to get around him, but the chief grabbed Bird Dog’s shoulder and slammed him up against a buffer, shouting, “Hold still, you arrogant son of a bitch!”

  Bird Dog watched Shaughnessy pop one panel open, then another. She hauled herself up to the fuselage, and the upper portion of her torso disappeared into the airframe, leaving only her legs sticking out. For the briefest second, Bird Dog remembered how Alvarez had looked as he disappeared into the sucking maw of the jet engine. He shuddered, part of his anger dissipated by the horrendous memory.

  Gator stood by the half-visible airman, talking to her as she rummaged around in the guts of the hydraulics system, electrical lines, and avionics that controlled the Tomcat. Finally, even over the shriek of the flight deck noise, Bird Dog heard her exclaim, “Got it!” Her butt wiggled as she backed herself out of the airframe. Gator caught her waist and helped her lower herself gently down to the deck.

  Her eyes shining with triumph, Shaughnessy held up her prize. Clutched in her left hand was a wrench. “It was jammed up next to the actuator, Chief!” she said excitedly. “When I saw 205 cycling on the cat, something looked funny to me. You know how it is, you get familiar with how your birds look. Just as the surface dropped, I thought I saw a little hitch. Kind of a bobble, just like a second or two when it wasn’t traveling smoothly.”

  The chief nodded. “Couldn’t have caught it in your preflight, though. And if that bird had launched with it, there’s a damned good chance those control surfaces wouldn’t have responded when the lieutenant tried to level out after his climb. He would have been stuck at full flaps — rolled over on his back, and come right back down onto the flight deck!”

  And, sir,�
� he added, meeting Bird Dog’s eyes with open challenge on his face, “you probably wouldn’t have gotten out.”

  Bird Dog turned pale as the full implication of Shaughnessy’s find sunk in. “I didn’t know,” he said finally.

  Gator put one hand on the airman’s shoulder. “That was damned fine work, and one of the sharpest problem catches I’ve ever seen. Thanks. You made a big difference today.”

  Shaughnessy nodded, her eyes suddenly bright. “It’s my bird most of the time, sir,” she said to the RIO, carefully avoiding looking at the pilot. “It’s only yours when it’s in the air.”

  “True enough. Would you please preflight this turkey again so we can get back onto the cat?” Gator asked.

  “Sure thing, sir. It’s your bird in five minutes.” She darted off to get another MAF.

  “And you,” Gator said, turning to Bird Dog, “really screwed the pooch this time, asshole. The only way you could make matters worse right now is if you don’t put this outside the cockpit and fly this damned mission as hot and tight as you’ve ever flown one. You owe these people that much.”

  Sun flashed off the nose of the Tomcat, leaving red specks flickering in his vision. Bird Dog blinked and waited for his vision to clear before easing the throttle forward.

  Flying — any sort of flying — would have also let him escape his thoughts for a while to concentrate on the almost-reflexive actions of bonding with the Tomcat. Sitting on the flight deck, with only Gator and the chatter on the flight deck circuit for company, it was too hard to escape thinking about the Chief’s words.

  Arrogant, was he? He tried to summon up the anger he’d felt when the Chief said that, but all he could feel was embarrassment. Shaughnessy had just saved his life by catching the control surface problem. Bird Dog shifted uneasily, telling himself that it was the stiff new lumbar support pad that caused it.